


still afraid of the reckoning

by halcyonidae



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP: EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 16:26:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11878332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyonidae/pseuds/halcyonidae
Summary: Harry, Ron, and Hermione: one year later.





	still afraid of the reckoning

**Author's Note:**

> FOR #2
> 
> LOL I HOPE THIS WORKS FOR YOU, MEMER 2.

There was a sour taste in his mouth when Harry woke up, blinking slowly into a dark blanket of hair. _Oh shit_ , he thought, staring at a curve of bare shoulder that blurred into a collarbone; as he lifted his head to squint at the blurry mess of limbs poking out of the sheets, the contents of his stomach lurched. Gingerly he laid his head back down and squeezed his eyes shut against the sunlight that filtered through his curtains.

At least he could recognize his own room, he thought forlornly. It was hot; he had one leg clamped against someone's heavy thigh, and when he slowly flexed his toes, he felt bare skin. Whoever it was shifted away with a soft grunt, and the feeling in his leg suddenly rushed back with pins and needles. He felt someone's soft breath warming the palm of his hand. 

Briefly he thought about pulling the covers over his head and going back to sleep but he was starting to smell his own rank breath and the smell of dried sweat, and he wasn’t sure if he could stand it for long.

Reluctantly Harry slowly patted around the bed for his glasses, finding them neatly folded beside his pillow. He shoved them on as he slid out of bed, only just holding back a loud curse after tripping over someone's trousers and falling on his ass. He found his boxers crumpled next to his dresser.

When he turned around, he froze, certain he was about to have a heart attack or possibly faint; there were not one but _two_ sets of naked limbs peeking out of his sheets, one freckled and dusted with orange hair and the other thin and pale with ink stains around the wrist. He could recognize that bright red hair and that mass of brown curls anywhere.

Harry snatched the first shirt and trousers he saw on the floor, and nearly fell across the bed in his haste when he stepped on his wand. The door creaked loudly when he tried to ease it open; he threw a panicked look over at the bed before exhaling in relief when neither of its occupants stirred. As soon as he closed the door he took a gulp of breath and made a run for it.

He puked up last night's birthday cake in the bathroom down the hallway, resting his head against the cold porcelain for a while. He spat out the worst of the taste from his mouth, his head still pounding, but he felt somewhat better about his chances of surviving this hangover. He looked terrible when he glanced at the mirror, his hair sticking up more than ever and his eyes rimmed red.

The shower felt like the best idea he’d had all morning; as he slowly brushed his teeth under the warm spray, he thought of the second bottle of firewhiskey and groaned. He remembered stumbling to bed at the end of the night too: nearly falling down the stairs when Ron's arm snaked around his waist and he had leaned into him for a while without shame; taking a deep breath of that nice aftershave they had given Ron for his birthday, when neither of them could handle the offensive musk he used to pat on with seemingly no sense of other noses nearby; the brush of a kiss by his ear. It came to him like a series of snapshots. There was a giggle as Hermione pulled them both up, the swell of her breasts as she pressed up against them peppering them with kisses in turn.

It had felt overwhelmingly nice. He tried not to think about it.

He quickly scrubbed shampoo into his hair, willing himself to empty his mind; instead it jumped at the chance to remind him of their most lurid moments, all the flashes of skin and heat he had never thought to imagine, and all the affection he wanted to drink in until his head swam. But he had seen the way Ron seemed to drift towards Hermione, the private smiles he had no business in seeing.

In that moment, he knew he couldn't do it again.

“You missed a spot, dear,” the mirror said drowsily as he stepped out of the shower. Harry flushed when he saw pink marks trailing down his chest, twisting to see a couple of red scratches borne from haste. He tried to ignore the pang of want as he hurried to heal them, obliterating all but one particularly stubborn bruise over his heart. He stared at it for a while. It seemed stupidly dramatic to keep it, but he could arguably hide it under a shirt. He let it stay.

Crookshanks bolted down the hallway when he came out of the bathroom, wiping water from his ears; he yowled at an unholy volume as he rubbed his face against Harry’s legs, winding around them as Harry tried to walk without tripping over him. Finally Harry gave in and picked him up. Crookshanks started purring immediately; when he got downstairs, the cat squirmed out of his arms and darted towards the kitchen, doubling back every couple of feet to make sure Harry was still following him.

Grimmauld Place looked better than it had during the war; they had spent the last year restoring it back to its former glory, loathe to let go of the last physical thing he had of Sirius. The walls had been repainted, no longer stained and tattered; the wooden floors had been painstakingly refinished, now gleaming rather than covered in rotting carpets; and they had been able to move Mrs Black and her family into an unused soundproofed hall, where Hermione had charmed eternal sunlight to glow gently through wide windows. Kreacher occasionally came back from Hogwarts to clean even though they had become adept at housework charms thanks to Ron's constant tutelage under Mrs Weasley. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that Kreacher liked to visit Mrs Black on occasion when he felt particularly curmudgeonly.

Most importantly, they had filled it with the kind of squashy cosy furniture that reminded them of Gryffindor Tower, storing all signs of its previous occupants in the attic. There was light in every room. He thought it would've made Sirius laugh to see it.

Unfortunately all that light only served to pierce straight through his head as he rummaged through the cupboards for a hangover potion. Worse still was Crookshanks on the counter, pawing his arm and looking more than a little disdainful at him for daring to search the wrong cupboard first. Harry gave up the fifth time a bushy tail whacked him in the face, digging out a can of cat food instead. He wanted to gag at the strong smell of fish and he held his breath as he pushed it away from him; he could never tell if Crookshanks was giving him a look or if it was just the way his face was, but Harry pulled a face back at him anyway.

By the time he heard the creak of the stairs, he had a frying pan full of eggs and a platter of bacon on the table. There was a chipped teapot dressed up in one of Hermione's unfortunate looking tea cozies pouring steaming tea into three giant mugs; as he stirred milk into a mug, he looked up to see a bedraggled Ron holding his head and looking worse for the wear.

“Please tell me that's mine,” Ron said, slumping at the table. Wordlessly he got the sugar and poured in an obscene amount before passing it over. Ron scrunched his eyes closed as he gulped half of it down, allowing Harry to gape at the edge of a red bite mark peeking out from Ron's shirt collar in dawning horror; he distinctly remembered placing it there. It seemed to tease him, a proprietary mark that could not be. He turned to hide his pained wince, busying himself with getting plates and silverware.

For a second he thought he saw Ron studying him carefully out of the corner of his eye, the same way he would study his chess pieces; but when Harry looked up properly, Ron looked back with eyes half open, scratching his bite mark idly. Harry blinked; the look was gone, if it had been there in the first place, and Ron just asked, “Pass me a plate?”

Harry didn't really know how to bring up last night, or even if he should; he desperately hoped that he wouldn't have to be the one to do it. He heard the stairs creak again just as he sat down with Hermione's customary tea; she came in equally as bedraggled as Ron, her hair even wilder than normal and tying a bathrobe tightly around her waist. Harry couldn't see if he had left a mark on her too.

Ron passed over her mug when she too slumped into her seat, massaging her temples. She didn't even mutter thanks, just waved her wand as drawers slid open around them until the long lost bottle of hangover potion flew out from one of the cabinets he hadn't thought to check.

“I looked for that all morning,” Harry complained. Hermione shushed him, pouring a respectable amount in her tea before passing it off to Ron, who hummed appreciatively as he took a swig. He held it out to Harry; he didn’t expect it when the brush of their hands sent a jolt through him, and he froze when he remembered with startling detail the way that same hand had stroked him.

Harry's eyes darted up to see if they had noticed, but Ron had already turned back to his food, shoveling a rasher of bacon into his mouth; Hermione was too busy pouring herself more tea. He slowly spooned the last of the eggs on to his plate, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely he couldn’t be the only one who remembered.

“Oh, by the way,” Ron said after a while, wiping his mouth, “Sorry about last night. We made kind of a big mess, didn't we?”

Harry coughed up a mouthful of eggs and Hermione, still mum, reached over to thump his back. Ron frowned at him, his fork paused halfway to his mouth with his bacon starting to slip off; before he could think of anything to say, an owl swooped into the kitchen and dropped off the Daily Prophet, knocking over his tea.

Grateful for the diversion, he jumped up and reached for a towel. The owl hopped over to him, its leg sticking out with its little money pouch; he dug around his trousers and found two Knuts. He watched it take off. When he turned back around, he saw them volleying strange looks; Hermione was narrowing her eyes at Ron, who seemed to be trying to waggle his eyebrows off. They quickly looked away when he sat back down, mopping up his spilled tea.

“You alright?” Hermione dragged the Prophet over, but not before she sent him a concerned look.

“Yeah,” Harry said weakly, and braced himself for an uncomfortable conversation; he scraped the tines of his fork over the last smear of grease on his plate, considering bringing it up himself. When nothing came, he looked up carefully. Neither of them looked as if something earthshaking had happened last night; instead, Hermione had her feet in Ron's lap, already taking the newspaper apart and passing over the comics section and the sports section to them both. It was stunningly picturesque.

He swallowed hard against the want, losing what little bravery he thought he could summon; in the end, he didn't mention last night at all. He wondered if that pang he felt was relief or disappointment.

–

At first he wondered if they were pretending nothing had happened, like him; he watched them carefully when they weren't looking, searching for signs of an inevitable blow up. He remembered too well the fiasco of the locket with all of their insecurities laid out to rest, but they lacked a convenient scapegoat this time. He braced himself for the inevitable confrontation, racking his brain for ways to soothe over every possibility, ways to keep both of them without having to disturb their peace. Mostly he watched as Ron and Hermione shared affection freely, cataloguing all the glances and casual touching between them. Sometimes they shared it with him too.

When weeks slipped by without a hint of an ugly fight brewing under the surface, it was clear he was the only one who remembered that night with any sort of clarity. It made his chest hurt sometimes. It came to him late at night, right when he rolled over to fall asleep; it came when he’d come home late and he could hear them murmur in the kitchen. He tried to tell himself it was relief rather than disappointment before committing to forgetting the whole thing.

But in between moments he would suddenly remember: a flash of skin, a heat curling low in his stomach, a whiff of fragrance. Once he had been at the pub with the other junior Aurors when he caught the way Ron's throat worked as he drank his pint, and suddenly he had to get some air; he burned so hotly that he could not work out how to breathe. Once Hermione sleepily brushed past him on her way out the door, patting him gently on the cheek; he had flushed with the memory of the way she had squeezed in along his back before they had fallen asleep, slipping a leg between his.

Every single time it startled him badly with how much he wanted to touch them again; the only solution he could think of was to put some distance between them. It was harder than he thought; somehow their lives had entangled seamlessly, a series of instinctual touch and softness stemming from an easygoing affection that flummoxed him now for their depth. No one else in his life touched him as often as they did. He wondered if that was part of it, and he had started seeing things that weren’t really there.

He began to notice how they picked up where the other left off without a thought, the way they would automatically dart in and out of each other's spaces as if it was choreographed; he didn’t know how he didn’t pick up on it before. Now, when Hermione leaned into him, he knew to shift back; when Ron’s shirt rode up, he knew to look away.

It was fine. He'd work through it, somehow.

–

A year after the war, the Aurors were still tracking down the last of Voldemort’s supporters; the Department of Magical Law Enforcement now had a public owl post designated for anonymous tips regarding Death Eaters at large. Under Kingsley's tenure as Minister, they had standing orders to treat each alert seriously despite how thin their forces were spread; more often than not they turned out to be false alarms, a skittish public still jumping at their own shadows.

Inevitably they had racked up a clientele of nosy regulars, all of whom frequently wrote in about the suspicious undercurrents of their idyllic village. It usually meant that junior Aurors were assigned the bulk of the repeat offenders; these days it also meant that they would get to investigate without a senior Auror accompanying them. 

“Arnie Jenkins of the neighborhood watch claims to have seen a mob of Death Eaters prowling Godric's Hollow,” Dawlish said tiredly, rubbing his temples. He shuffled through the stack on his desk, which had begun listing to the left under the weight. There was a betting pool on its impending demise, and whether or not Dawlish would be caught in the avalanche. “Make it short, Potter, Weasley. We've got Macmillan and Goldstein at Ms Arden's down the way, so make sure you check in with each other.” He frowned at them. “Try to fill out your forms correctly this time.”

When Harry and Ron had joined the Aurors, they had no idea how much time would be devoted to calming the elderly or writing up tipsy hags for public disorderly conduct. Harry had rather thought it would be a little like the hunt for Horcruxes: lots of waiting, unending research, and intermittent moments of running for his life. He suspected that he had written more words through paperwork than he ever had for essays and the thought was a little depressing.

As they checked their wand holsters, Ron patted him consolingly on the shoulder. “At least we get to stretch our legs,” he offered.

“Bet you a sickle it's another stray dog that tripped the wards,” Anthony said glumly from behind them, Ernie in tow. “This is the fifth time we've gone to Arden's this month. It's always a stray dog.”

They exchanged dark glances before Apparating behind an abandoned storefront near the edge of Godric's Hollow. As per usual, they agreed on green sparks for _all clear_ , red sparks for _emergency_ ; after agreeing to convene at the church, Anthony and Ernie set off immediately for their patrol. 

The sun was only just beginning to set, but the humidity lingered; Harry already felt his robes sticking to the back of his neck and he loosened the collar, squinting into the golden light. They took their time; the last time Harry had been here, Nagini had been living in a rotting corpse of an old woman. This time, he enjoyed walking down Church Lane past the quaint cottages, their lush gardens spilling into the streets.

Arnie Jenkins pointed them towards the edge of his property, wringing his wizened hands. “Swear on me heart,” he said, “Been seeing some nasty looking nutters hanging around. You’ll get ‘em, won’t you Potter?”

They poked around the bushes, though there was nothing there except some discarded wrappers from the local Muggles. Still, they had to search thoroughly; they doubled back through town, peering into shadowy alleys and in between streets.

He stopped at the memorial for his parents. He’d forgotten how much it looked like them, yet not at all; in photos and Pensieve memories neither of them had ever looked so placid.

Ron stood by him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Harry swore he could feel the warmth seeping through his robes, all the blood rushing to that one point of contact; he stepped back before he could make a fool of himself, shrugging off Ron's hand a little more roughly that he would have liked.

Ron looked hurt. Still, he drew his hands back, shoving them into his pockets. There was the start of a sunburn reddening his cheeks. He asked, “You want to visit your parents afterwards?”

“I—Yeah,” Harry said. The only time he had gone had been with Hermione during the war. He had not yet come by with Ron, and suddenly he very much wanted to go. “I want you to meet them.”

They started walking the rest of the outer reach of the village, and if Ron nudged his shoulder every so often, Harry tried not to dwell on it.

The rest of patrol went quietly; Godric’s Hollow was a sleepier village than most, almost subdued.

Eventually they passed by the cemetery on their patrol; at the cusp of fall, the crumbling headstones looked softer, surrounded by ancient trees drooping over them with heavy arms of burning foliage. He liked it more this way. It was quiet, but it lacked the kind of muffled silence from the dead of winter. Harry paused by the gate, staring out to where he knew his parents were buried.

Before he could go through Ron stopped him, unusually serious. “Can we talk?”

Harry frowned. “Ron?”

Ron looked at him; it was the same look Harry thought he had imagined the morning after his birthday, a careful study of the chessboard. 

“You want to tell me if something’s the matter, mate?” Ron asked carefully. He chewed his lip for a second, adding, “You’ve been—absent.”

“What do you mean?”

Ron crossed his arms, mouth open; then he snapped it shut, eyes wide and staring past him. Harry swiveled sharply; there, red sparks barely visible against the sunset. They broke into a run, drawing their wands.

Up ahead was a clearing, and they could see brilliant jets of light bursting through the treetops. Harry skidded to a stop; he ducked behind a tree just as a curse landed where he stood, leaving a slightly smoking scorch mark on the ground. Ron threw up a shield as another curse flew their way; on the other side of the clearing, Harry saw Ernie and Anthony swerving in and out from the trees, shields faltering under the relentless assault. He took a deep breath and dared a quick glimpse; he couldn’t see their assailant from this angle.

He dropped and flattened against the ground when he saw an Incendio hurtling towards him. The tree burst into flames; he crawled over to Ron as flaming leaves rained down on him.They retreated, just enough that the barrage of spells couldn’t reach them. A quick scan revealed a dilapidated cabin just beyond the clearing; Ron pointed at a copse of trees dense enough to cover their approach. There was a roar of pain— _Anthony_ , Harry thought, his grip tightening on his wand, and he jerked up long enough to deflect a curse from Ernie’s blind side, who had stumbled over close enough to reach.

“I sent for backup!” Ernie shouted, throwing a jinx. It shattered a tree in half; Harry vaguely remembered teaching it to him at Hogwarts and was briefly proud. “It’s Mulciber, Harry— _dammit_ ,” he swore, only just blocking a spell aimed for his head.

“We’re going to double around,” Ron shouted back, “try to get him from the back!”

“We’ll cover you!” Anthony slid past them, panting. His trousers had one leg burned off; he had a nasty burn spreading across his thigh, and he was limping badly.

Suddenly Harry heard a piercing whistle behind him; he turned just in time to see Ernie slam back into a tree and slide to the ground, unmoving.

They backed up into a circle, protecting Ernie’s prone body. A twig snapped to his right; Harry swerved around sharply, bringing his wand up to find no one there. 

He was suddenly shoved to the ground, his head slamming back into the grass. Harry scrabbled for his wand, immediately rolling to his feet only to see Ron crouched on the ground, gasping wetly as he clutched his stomach, thick ropes hanging from his hands. With a sickening lurch Harry realized he was holding in his intestines. Ron looked up at him, dazed and pale. There was blood seeping from his mouth, draining into the ground. In the distance, he heard a deafening scream; it rang in his ears until all sound had hollowed out.

He realized that the screaming was him.

“Shit,” Harry gasped hoarsely, “shit, _Ron_ ,” and he ripped his robes off as he slipped on the bloody grass, dropping to his knees and pulling Ron to him. He levitated his insides off the dirt as gently as he could, balling the robes under his head. “Hold on,” he begged; Ron grabbed the front of his shirt, hands shaking and leaving streaks of blood down his front. He was trying to suck in air, but all Harry could hear was gurgling.

He looked up to see Anthony standing in front of them, leaning heavily on his right leg as he threw up shield after shield; Harry saw Mulciber now, laughing madly though he too had a limp, his clothes scorched in patches.

Another man emerged from the trees, brandishing his wand as he approached. Harry remembered that sharp face from a late night cafe long ago and countless wanted posters hanging in the office; it was Dolohov, still gaunt from his years in Azkaban. He looked wild, the way his robes hung in tatters and his hair looked painfully matted to his head. And he was in Anthony’s blindspot; a curse hurtled towards them.

Harry bared his teeth, gripping Ron tighter as he quickly threw up a shield; he waited until he had a clear shot, Ron’s hands still clutching weakly to his front. Rage nearly blinded him, and for a long second he considered the Cruciatus.

Then there were a series of loud cracks; the reinforcements had finally arrived.

“Fucking _finally_ ,” Anthony snarled; a hex from behind them nearly took off his head. When he dodged he leaned too hard on the bad leg and it crumpled underneath his weight. His shields shattered. Mulciber jumped at the chance; before he could, Harry threw an Expelliarmus with a roar, stabbing his wand violently into the air.

There was a burst of red light that slammed into Mulciber; his head snapped back and he flew across the clearing, well above several Aurors’ heads. Harry didn't stick around long enough to see where Mulciber landed; Harry barely breathed as he held onto Ron and Disapparated.

He landed hard on his knees in the lobby of St Mungo’s, already screaming for a Healer. Ron was growing colder by the second; his shaking had stopped when he hadn’t been paying attention, and Harry could not fathom being too late to save him. 

Healers came running at him in their lime green robes, already running their wands over them and trying to take Ron from his grasp. He almost snarled at them to let go before he got a hold of himself and went limp. He watched listlessly as they ran Ron into emergency care before the doors slammed shut behind them.

For a long moment he knelt on the cold floor; somehow he staggered to his feet.

–

St Mungo's always reminded him of Aunt Petunia's kitchen, and he hated it almost as much. The stench of disinfectant hung in his nose even as he rubbed his hands over his face, only barely remembering to wipe his hands on the sides of his thighs in time. They were the only spots that weren't tacky.

He lifted his head when he heard the clatter of heels flying down the hallway; he took in the stony look on Hermione's face, thunderous even at a distance, and felt the tenseness drain from his shoulders. She pushed past a couple of orderlies, her lips pressed thinner and thinner when they wouldn't move quickly enough. When her gaze met his, he saw her jaw clench and her stride started to falter, her knuckles painfully white around the straps of her purse.

“Ron?” Her gaze darted down the hallway; Harry tried to work around the dryness in his throat, suddenly unable to say anything. When Hermione glanced back, she dropped her purse at the look on his face, her lower lip beginning to wobble. He stood with arms already open, and she flew into him, nearly knocking him over.

Harry caught her hands as gently as he could before they could touch his face. She stared at the way the streaks had begun to crack over his skin and he winced; he took his hands back, letting them hang by his sides. “He's still in emergency care. He's going to be okay,” he said, and he tried to believe it too.

“I thought—oh Harry,” and her voice trembled before smoothing out. She wiped her eyes and whipped her wand out, her eyes narrowed at the state of him. “You look frightful,” she said, and with a flick of her wrist the blood vanished. She took his hands then, clicking her tongue at his bloodied knuckles as she healed them.

Sometime in the last year he had finally hit a late growth spurt, and where Hermione had nearly been of equal height before, now she could tuck her face comfortably against his chest without having to duck. He felt a flush of hot air when she exhaled a great shuddering breath, her mouth pressed against his collarbone; he gave in and buried his nose against her hair, always escaping the tight bun she liked to wear for the office. It smelled like Ron's shampoo.

“I called Molly,” she said after a minute, stepping back. She kept a light hold of his wrist, guiding them both to a seat. She slumped against him. “She's said she's taking the first Portkey out of France, but I told her we'd both take care of him.” She sighed. “What happened?”

“He shoved me down,” Harry said, looking away. “It was Dolohov or Mulciber, he must've had a clear shot; they said it was the Entrail-Expelling Curse.” He swallowed hard. “I should've seen it coming.”

“Harry.”

“He always has my back.” Harry muttered, flattening his hair. He refused to look at her, staring instead at the scuffed linoleum. He heard the groan of the waiting room chair as she slumped in her seat, and then a sigh. She leaned her head on his shoulder; hesitantly he reached up and brought his arm around her. They settled in that way, waiting for Ron.

It seemed like a long time before one of the Healers approached them. She tucked her clipboard under her arm as they got up in tandem, unrolling the sleeves of her green robes.

“You can see him now,” she said, and smiled tiredly at them. Before Harry could ask, she said, “He got here just in time; we didn't have any trouble fixing him right up. He's going to be sleeping for a bit, but there won't be any lingering effects of the curse. We're keeping him under observation for the night, but you can take him home tomorrow as long as he takes it easy for the next week. He's in room 435; three rooms to your right when you exit the lift.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, straightening her robes as she got up. She took his hand as they took the lift in silence, her palm hot against his; for a brief moment he remembered his plan to keep his distance but he held on anyway, only letting go when they reached Ron's room. It opened to a dark room with a single occupant, and when he closed the door behind him, the hubbub of the ward dimmed to quiet.

The first thing Harry noticed was how stark Ron's freckles were against his skin; the bubble of soft light the Healer had left to float over his bed only served to highlight the pallor of his cheeks. The sheets were tucked over his bare chest, but they could still see the edge of a pink starburst peeking out, stretching over the base of his neck. The Healers had even fixed the sunburn over the bridge of his nose. Hermione gently pushed his hair away from his face, the corners of her mouth turned down; her hand stilled over his forehead.

He pulled the sheet up under Ron's chin for lack of anything to do, then shoved his hands into his pockets. He was too still, too quiet. Ron never slept without noise or movement; over the years it became comforting in its constant presence, and sometimes he thought he fancied that it was a necessary and often missed part of the ambiance at school.

“Sit down,” Hermione said wearily as she conjured up a pair of armchairs by Ron's bedside and pulled his chart from the foot of his bed. She kicked off her heels and drew her knees up, rubbing absentmindedly at her ankles as she flipped through it, a familiar look of concentration furrowing her brows. He sat down in the other armchair, slumping into the soft cushions, unable to look away from the still figure in the bed.

He only noticed that he had been picking at the skin around his nails when Hermione reached over to touch his hand; when he glanced over, she was still staring at Ron's chart. The expression on her face had changed into something that he had seen once. It took a moment before he realized it was the look he had seen often during the search for Horcruxes, after Ron had ran; it was a sort of resigned sadness, and it was not a look he wanted to see again.

He turned his palm over and laced his fingers through hers. He didn't wince when her grip turned painful.

–

Ron woke up a few hours into their vigil, his fingers twitching over the bedspread before flying up to rub his eyes. “Merlin,” he mumbled, “who hit me with a Bludger?”

Hermione's head jerked up from where she had leaned it against the top of her knees, knocking into Harry in her rush to uncurl from the squashy armchair. She looked as if she was about to leap on him; Harry steadied her before she could tip over. “Ron!”

“That bad, huh?” Ron grimaced as he pulled himself up in bed. He peeked under the sheet and made a face. “Guess I can't make Witch Weekly's most eligible wizard list anymore.”

“You’re still most eligible wizard in my heart,” Harry said deadpan, before he let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding; he sat back in the armchair, a hysterical laugh threatening to break out.

Hermione laughed wetly. “You wouldn’t have made it anyway, you’re not exactly a bachelor.”

Ron beamed up at her. “Nope,” he said dopily, patting her hands. Hermione clutched them, looking at turns relieved and about to hit him, and Ron lifted their hands and pressed a soft kiss on them.

Harry caught himself staring, envy unfurling in his chest; he forced himself to look past them to the window, where he could see a hint of dawn chasing the night. Still, he thought, seeing Ron alive and well to send goopy looks Hermione's way made him happy too; it meant all was right with the world.

Ron turned to him now, frowning. “You look like you killed someone's dog, mate.”

Harry tried to smile. “How are you feeling?”

Ron reached over, wiggled his fingers until Harry hesitantly slid his hand over, and he took his hand too; he patted it consolingly, before holding it properly. “Not so bad that you should look like you're about to attend someone's funeral.” He paused, thinking. “'M sore, but nothing unusual.”

Hermione clutched his other hand tighter and Ron winced. “Hey,” he soothed, looking alarmed. “I'm okay, Hermione. Really.”

“That's because Harry got you here in time,” Hermione said. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve before clearing her throat. “You could've been killed. You got hit by an Entrail-Expelling Curse! It could've been so much _worse_.”

“Yeah, but I'm here, aren't I? I'm alright, I don't even feel that sore.” Then Ron admitted, “A bit floaty, though. What am I on?”

“Just a Numbing Potion,” Hermione said, already reaching for the chart she had set on the bedside table sometime in the night. She flipped through it again. “One of the Healers told us you could leave when you wake up,” and Ron tried to scramble out of bed before she quelled him with a look, “but not before you get another examination.”

Ron looked rather put out before he sent a pleading look at Harry, who shook his head. In this, he and Hermione agreed; he couldn't shake the image of Ron bleeding out in his lap, despite having proof of his well-being right before him. He never wanted to see that, or the look on Hermione's face, again. He squeezed Ron's hand once, letting go before he could see how badly Harry's hands were shaking. Then he got to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Ron frowned at him. Hermione looked up then, and there was a furrow in her brows as they took in the distance between them.

“Gonna see if I can get tea, and maybe flag down a Healer,” Harry said, his hands shoved into his pockets. “You look like you could use a spot of tea, honestly.” Before they could say anything, he fled into the hallway and closed the door quietly. He leaned back until his head rested against it, resisting the urge to knock it back a few times; for lack of anything better to do, he decided to get some tea anyway.

There was still a respectable din, even at this late hour; the lights in the hallway were considerably brighter, and Harry had to squint before his eyes adjusted. He headed toward a couple of Healers hanging out by the desk across from the lift; they looked as tired as he felt, though one of them offered a kindly smile when he approached. One of them headed towards Ron's room after they pointed him toward the fifth floor.

The tearoom and hospital shop was staffed by a single wizard who was busy restocking the shop and had floating boxes spilling out sweets and squishy toy unicorns into neat rows. A few of them floated by and whinnied softly as he ducked under them; a row of stuffed dragons blew out tiny flumes of smoke shaped like hearts and fluttered their pudgy wings at him. He passed by another row of tiny owls hooted at him while rustling their plush wings, a little parchment banner hanging from a leg that occasionally unfurled to reveal sweet greetings; they looked almost comically overstuffed. The closest one looked a lot like Pig. He studied it a little more before tucking it under his arm.

He made his way to the back, where the tearoom had stations set up for tea and coffee. There was sugar and milk splattered on the one end; and it was running low on tea bags. He opted for the usual milky sweet cup for Ron, a builder's tea for himself, and coffee for Hermione, who already had constant dark bags under her eyes and had grown considerably more tired the longer the night went on. As he stirred, he suddenly thought of how he had once held Ron like that before, only then he had been seizing from poisoned wine. It was not an experience he thought he’d repeat. More than once he had seen his friends jump in front of him and end up bloodied for their efforts, and he was tired of it.

He didn’t know if he could survive losing him. Either of them.

The tea had stopped steaming by the time he realized he had been staring at the wall, still absently stirring the tea. He set the spoon down, feeling defeated; a quick tap warmed the cups up again. He rubbed his face tiredly, took a sip, and grimaced at the taste of weak tea.

After a few more minutes of consideration, he grabbed a few handfuls of Chocolate Frogs, a packet of biscuits, some Ice Mice for Hermione and floated them over to the register.

When he made his way back down with cups of tea floating around him, he stopped when he saw that the door had been left slightly ajar. He could hear the low murmur of furious whispering; for a brief moment, he thought about beating a quick retreat and giving them some more privacy. Then he heard his name, and after a quick glimpse for onlookers, he casually leaned against the wall where he could eavesdrop without being seen.

“You think it has something to do with—?”

“He's been spooked ever since.” Harry could see Hermione wringing her hands, even biting her lip as she frowned, tugging her hair as she turned the problem over in her head. Her voice dropped and Harry had to strain to hear. “Do you think we did the right thing?”

“It was your idea to give him space,” Ron said. There was a pause, and then a tone of disbelief. “You don't think he’s doing his stupid savior shit again?”

Harry frowned; he had no idea what either of them were talking about, only that it had something to do with him. Then one of the cups of tea bumped into his head and he had to suffer hot tea slopping over his hair. He swore loudly; their voices abruptly went silent and he took this as his cue to enter.

Hermione and Ron still had their hands clasped when he went in, and he averted his eyes as he blotted tea off his hair with his sleeve. Emptying his pockets at the foot of the bed, he passed their cups to them as they murmured their thanks.

“It's pretty bad,” he warned them. He braced himself for another sip. It still tasted like watery milk; sighing, he tossed it in the bin.

“That mine?” Ron asked brightly, pointing at the stuffed owl still tucked under his arm. He let it fly over; Ron eagerly snatched it out of midair. “Aww, it looks like Pig. I miss that daft owl,” he added fondly. He placed it carefully next to his pillow.

Hermione laughed before taking a sip of her coffee. She grimaced. “Sometimes I think they purposely make it bad.”

“Ugh.” Ron made a face, setting his cup down. “You were right. That's the worst tea I’ve ever had. I could really go for some bacon,” he added. He widened his eyes hopefully at Harry, and he had to laugh at the kicked puppy look. Right now, Harry would do anything for that look.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can do that.”

–

By the time Ron could leave with them, it was well into the morning. The Healer had strictly emphasized rest, a bland diet until everything had settled, a potion to drink every morning for a month, and a check up at the end of the week; Ron complained about the diet but Hermione took every word to heart, especially once Ron had gotten up to reveal the worst of his new painfully pink scar right above his navel. She had met Harry’s gaze over Ron's head then, her lips pressed thin; he nodded back at her. They'd make sure he'd be alright.

When they got home, they helped Ron to his seat at the kitchen table before Harry got up to put the kettle on. He looked a bit pained as he rubbed where the curse had done its worst damage, but it quickly twisted into a proper grimace when he got a whiff of the potion Hermione set by him.

“That smells godawful,” he said, and after he gulped it down, “And it tastes godawful too.” He stole Harry’s mug and drained it. Ron looked exhausted despite the good cheer; it had taken a lot out of him just to move around, and all Harry kept thinking about was how close they had come to losing him.

“Ron,” he began quietly, “Don't do that again.”

Ron's head snapped up from over his tea. He looked puzzled. “Do what?”

“That curse was meant for me,” Harry said. He felt his hands shaking, and clenched them tightly. In the corner of his eye, Hermione sat up attentively, looking alarmed. “What if it had been something _worse_?”

“So what, you just want us to let you die?” Ron sat up too, a scowl on his face. “We’re Aurors, in case you haven’t noticed. Sooner or later one of us is going to get hurt. We knew that going in.”

“This is different,” Harry said, although he didn’t know how to articulate how. He had to force his fists to uncurl. “We almost _lost_ you. Hermione almost lost you.” It came out in a burst: “Maybe—maybe I need you to stay alive first. Okay?”

There was a long silence.

“Have you ever considered how we’d feel if you died on us?” Hermione asked coldly. She looked angry, truly angry; she balled her hands into fists. “Because you did, and I have to say that was one of the worst moments of my life.”

Harry shrugged with as much fake casualty as he could muster. “But you’d have each other,” he pointed out.

She exchanged long looks with Ron.

“We’re not going to leave you, Harry,” Ron said, looking offended at the very suggestion. “We’re your friends.”

“I _know_ ,” Harry snapped, more forcefully than he wanted. He took a deep breath. “It's not that, I just—sometimes I think I'm acting like it's just the three of us again, and I don't want to keep people from living their lives just because I can be a little... stuck. And do something I shouldn’t have.”

“Harry,” Hermione asked slowly, something dawning on her face, “Is this about your birthday night?”

“What? No,” Harry said. Then, a little unconvincingly: “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

Ron rolled his eyes and turned to Hermione, his arms crossed. “I told you he would do this.”

“Oh Harry,” Hermione said finally. “What do you think happened?”

Somehow this had turned into a conversation he had doggedly avoided for months. He didn't really know how to say that he had woken up next to them and had panicked. He summoned up bravery from somewhere to blurt out, “We might’ve drank a lot and I think we did something and I might’ve misinterpreted things?”

Harry suddenly found the kitchen table unusually interesting.

There was a pause; he didn't have to look to imagine the two of them looking at each other, a silent conversation playing out on their faces. He looked up when Hermione buried her face into her hands; she started laughing, louder and louder until she had to wipe her eyes. Ron nudged her not too gently, looking exasperated.

“I told you we should’ve said something the morning of,” Ron said to Hermione. “I told you!”

To Harry, he said simply, “We just didn't want to push you.”

“What?”

Ron shrugged. “We sort of thought you came to a decision on your own.”

Hermione was suddenly very close. She reached over to him, cradling his face in her hands. “Harry, we didn’t want to make you choose between your friends or a one night stand. But we want you here with us no matter what,” she said softly. She stroked his cheeks with her thumbs. “We want you. Very much.”

“Did you think we'd let anyone but you into our lives? You're ours,” Ron said. He took Harry’s face in his hands, leaned his forehead against his. Up close, Harry could count every freckle, every lash. Hermione laid a hand on the back of his neck, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss them.

Ron said, “You’re always going to be stuck with us. Sorry, Harry.”

Harry stared at them both.

“Can you answer something for us?” Hermione asked patiently. She took a deep breath. “Do you love us?”

He swallowed; he knew he’d die for them without hesitation, even kill for them. In the end, it really was so simple.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, I do.”


End file.
